The Hollow Crown: Eloquence
by tranimation
Summary: Directly after their whirlwind marriage, King Henry V of England and Katharine (Catherine) of Valois, daughter of the King of France, have only a few hours together in their bridal chamber before he leaves to resume his war campaigns. Canonical (to THE HOLLOW CROWN BBC miniseries, starring Tom Hiddleston): : Historical/Romance: On-going. Rated T for intellectualism.
1. Oft the Best-Laid Plans Run Astray

**THE HOLLOW CROWN: ELOQUENCE  
Act I: "Oft the Best-Laid Plans Run Astray"**

Written by Diane N. Tran (tranimation)

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Due to the intricacy of this pastiche, concerning the history, the characters, the feudal entitlement system, the extensive research, and the artistic reasoning behind it, a "compleat" essay-length writer's description will be read separately at the story's afterword. Special thanks to Liz Hartley (weapon13whitefang) and R. Noel (goodoldbaz) for toughing out my exertion into the Shakespearean literary style in order to be my Grammar Nazis.

**Synopsis**: Directly after their whirlwind marriage, two weeks following the signing of the Treaty of Troyes, King Henry V of England and Katharine (Catherine) of Valois, daughter of the King of France, have only a few hours together in their bridal chamber before he leaves to resume his war campaigns. Canonical (to _The Hollow Crown: Henry IV_ and _Henry V_ BBC 2012 miniseries, starring Tom Hiddleston): Historical/Romance: On-going. Rated T for (needed) intellectualism.

**Dedication**: To the Hiddles, the standard to which all other men should be ideally measured. I shall undoubtedly walk this earth forever alone due to the unreachable expectations you have placed for the men in my life. (And to Tumblr, keep on Tomblin'!)

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For six months, six _long_ months, Harry Plantagenet, King of England, sat with advisors and monarchs up to his ears in the Great Hall of the French royal court at Troyes, labouring tirelessly o'er each individual scribbling of the treatise, sheets and sheets of words atop of words, till his eyes would cross, but 'twas necessary if France was to be all his and his alone.

No, he correct'd himself, not alone, for there was _she_.

For Katharine of Valois, fair Kate and most fair, daughter of the King of France, too, sat within the Great Hall, with her vestal chaperon at her side, quiet and careful, on a simple, wooden bench, her satin robes laid out in a pool around her feet upon the stonework, athwart the opposite ends of the room, listening and watching, whilst her life was chosen for her by a man she knew not. His gaze would feign interest from the aimless burbling of councilmen and take in her as a most rare vision, like a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream was anything but she. Marry, the princess was a dream he need ne'er wake from.

Whiles ladies of court had their curious fashion of manners and, in faith, their curious manner of fashions, the sovereign ruler of England had no possession of talent for wooing. When it came to the calls of battlement, he was trumpeter of an orator; but when it came to affairs of the heart, he was a gowk of a prattler: Other men, of infinite tongues, could rhyme themselves into ladies' favours and could reason themselves out again, but not he, for his condition was too rough and too plain and too honest to be anything other than himself. Still, he could see her discontent, her worry: Was her husband-to-be a good man, a noble man? Would he treat her courteously, or cruelly? Was she e'er to know happiness, or only regret? What pray was to be of her fate? Till he was vouchsaf'd an audience alone with her one day, all too brief for his taste, to plead his love-suit did she know her answer.

When the signing of the treatise was at an end, he finally had the freedom to do what he will'd and he chose to be in company of the Lady Katharine. For the next fortnight, they walk'd together, arm in arm, and talk'd together, hour upon hour, in garden, in the library, in the corridors, in the halls, till there was no place left to do e'erything and anything and nothing. He oft made excuses to be near her side, to help her slice a piece of fruit during meals, or to ask her to translate a word from his books, to help fetch the most insignificant of items, to perform the most irrelevant of deeds, simply to steal a fleeting touch of her hand or a whisp'ring fragrance of her hair.

Once he broke the string of a button upon his new doublet, a gift from Valois, she stood affront him and against him, her glancing fingers' ends held aloft a needle and thread, touches of lithe exquisiteness and genteel warmth brush'd intimately 'tween the elusive folds of fabric and o'er the collar of his bare chest, and left him to his affects: His heart sped, his breath bated, his skin rived into goose-flesh, and his ken beheld her and only her, his world, his e'erything, his second self.

Unassuming as she was, there was this self-possession, this mute confidence, this careful observance, this acceptance of difference, this impassion of spirit, this fearlessness on her sleeve, this mischievous play, this gracious disregard for the customs and courtesies forc'd 'twixt them, that both besott'd and bewitch'd him, hopelessly, utterly, _entirely_.

By happy accident, one afternoon, he prepar'd their horses and they rode together, side by side. When, by chance, he unleash'd the reins of her horse, she gallop'd afar, with the speed of a whirlwind, and he follow'd, screaming her name, fearful the beast would do her harm; but she, in troth, rode like a chasseur of France and laugh'd merrily the whole way. When they took respite, to lay themselves down upon the grass, he tied their mounts to a branch, napp'd his head upon the pillow of her gentle lap, whilst her fingers wove through his soft curls and brush'd against his woollen beard, heard her sing the songs that would charm him, and perch'd the crown o'th' god of sleep on his eyelids. There, she did dip her flowery head and gift him her chaste kiss. Be still his heart, for ne'er had he known such _glory_ of peace...

But, alas, freedom they had little of. Vigilant were the attentions of her nurse and her family, and she, too, had her duties to perform, addling as they were, as Princess of France: She would console her ailing father, attend her queenly mother, regard her siblings, and was privy to the comings and goings of court and council. However, when the opportunist's advantage arose, whilst eyes so leery were divert'd, she would tilt her laurel of golden braids, adorn'd with pearls and ribbons, along his shoulder and entwine her fingers idly with his, roughen and callous by rein and sword; and yet there was a _curiousness_ to her nature that he could not quite fathom: This foreboding gloom, this questionable melancholy, would grip her soul without explanation, for he could see it, well-nigh touch it, in the downcast gaze of her eyes, in the sad purse of her lips, in the slow method of her gests, and in the tactful music of her voice, being that it held her back, caus'd her to evade his touch and slip away from his embrace, and he could not comprehend the reason behind these chastisements.

Still, the times she was gone, the castle, in all its luxuries and excesses, was unbearably empty and silent. The wait 'tween the eve and the morn, the slow crawl of time, the hours he must tarry on his own, unable to do anything but pace and sleep, till he saw her next, was a long and lonely one. Without her presence to fill the room and her voice to break the dull hush, he found the castle had become much like the imprisonable fortress 'twas meant to be rather than the strange haven it had become. Made all the worse now that he had her to himself these two weeks.

But let it be said that the courses of true love ne'er did run smooth: The wedding ceremony, for it may please the will of God, did not please the Harry of England, as it was _not_ the grand festival he had hop'd worthy of a grand lady, nor of a princess, nor of a queen, but that of a pauperess: It was small, private, sudden, and had all the features of an elopement — the basest form of marriage. The bride and groom knelt before the friar to join hands and, with hands, join hearts; but did she not deserve better, of flowers and tributes and celebrants, of embellishments of costume and custom, with all of England and France therein, to see her as the resplendent woman that he saw her as?

The Lady of Valois spoke little at the ceremony, save a friar's prayer. She spoke nothing at the feast — it, too, was a meagre disservice — that follow'd, grazing listlessly at crumbs of air. She would not smile, nor meet his eye, nor bear his touch, but took excuse and forthwith retire. The Lord of Lancaster did waver but a moment, only the briefest of moments. Giving no care and no courtesy to the table, he gave a chase through the castle corridors and ground a halt whence the door of their bedchamber abas'd him a crook nose and a sunken pride.

"Kate?" he pled forth and rapt a coarse knuckle upon the timber of the chamber-door before he crept afoot.

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	2. Weightier Than Two Lovers As We

**THE HOLLOW CROWN: ELOQUENCE  
Act II: "Weightier Than Two Lovers As We"**

Written by Diane N. Tran (tranimation)

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The sovereign lord, spying his new consort, with her back towards him, in watchful wake at the caged windows, assay'd the deaf echo of his heart-beats and the blind sight of her eye-drops.

"Dearest Katharine," he bid to approach her, to appease her, to apprize her, with a careful grace and a precise toe, "mine own Kate, have you wept all this while?"

"Oui," she mutter'd in a grievous gale, "and I sall weep avile longer."

"I do not desire that."

"You have no raison; I do it freely."

"O fair, sweet Kate, you must shed this burden of silence upon thee, for I am at a disadvantage," he whisper'd to her, whilst he knelt gravely at her feet upon one knee and dealt an open hand, warily searching her expression for answers to questions from whence he knew not. "Have I wrong'd thee, Kate? Tell me, I prithee, and I shall strike myself with mine own dagger where I stand, if only to please thee. If not, tell me withal. Givest me the name of he who hath wrong'd you, and I shall strike the villain down anew. I beseech you to speakest plainly, soundly, from thy tender heart without fear of restraint or of remorse, for I can endure this torture no longer. Come, lend me thy thoughts, queen of all, and gift me thine eloquence in thy broken, beauteous music."

"O Seigneur Dieu, donnez-moi la force!" Her words, fraught in displeasure and discontent, hasten'd together, one after another, verily more to herself than to he: "Pourquoi faut-il que Anglois soit si difficile? Ces mots sonnent faux et grossiers?"

"What says you, fair one?" He bore his ear and knit his brow to make head or tail of her French tongue: "Say'st that this English is difficult, that I must agree, for it is thus, and that its words false and fat, that I cannot, for when words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain, to which I can afford no such vanity; but the rest," he shook his head with a knurly frown, "I am all but lost. Have I displeas'd thee, Kate?"

"Non, your majestee, you have not," she answer'd at length, unwilling to meet his eye, with a dishearten sigh. "It is my own doing. I am at fault."

"Fie, that cannot be: Of what offence couldst thou have done, for I know not one; therefore, I beseech my lady, pardon me. Mine honour is my life; both grow in one. Take honour from me, my life is done. Fault must rest within me, if thou art displeas'd, Kate. Whenceforth did I commit this folly? I shall swear to make recompense of my action to retain thy good graces anon. Come, bid me do anything for thee."

"Henri, I do not know how to say en your England."

"Try, Kate; try," implor'd her gallant lord, his hand aloft still. "Dost the wedding displease thee in its plainness? True, the revel was most undeserving of a great lady. Thereupon our return to England shall make restitution: I shall rain a shower of rose petals o'er thy honeyed head, throw precious jewels at thy feet, envelop thee in silk and ermine, garnish thee gifts worthy of an empress, and march a pageantry in thine honour that should be the awe of conquerors. Wilt that not please thee, Kate?"

"Sauf votre honneur, non." His sweet oaths did allow a small, incidental smile to breach 'tween her sobful whispers. He lulled his countenance into the cradle of her temperate hand that swept against the scarred blemish of his cheek: "I have no want of ornements or ordonnances. You know me, Henri: Do you think me so vain, so égoïste?"

"No, my queen," he stood at last, tall and graceful, "I know thee well."

He stepp'd forward and knelt his head close, yearning only to comfort in her hour of need, but she spurn'd from her husband's embrace, of sorrow and grief that would not or could not speak, for the gesture, as simple as it was, gave him pause, stopp'd him short, made him hesitate, for it wounded him more deeply and more grievously than all the French armies with their brandish swords, poison arrows, and hellish cannons, as she left him to stand forlorn, to gaze on her with a painful, mistful countenance, like a man at mark, with mere shadows as his companions, at the opposite side of the chamber.

"Again," his words fell from him, slow and uneasy, as he wreath'd his fretful hands together to steady their condition, "I ask thee, Kate: Why art thou displeas'd?"

His alderliefest lady spoke not quickly, for her silence stretch'd at length in a torturous device. Aimlessly encircling about the lavish and luxuriant mattress of their empty marital bed, she curl'd her pale hand around one of the carven pillars, and held herself against the dark wood, half-hidden behind it, before she found her voice, yet so faint was this voice that he could barely register its sound:

"I am told, Henri, dat you are to leave Troyes to-morrow?"

The king bit upon his tongue. "From whom didst thou hear this?"

"Is it true?"

"Aye, Kate, it is," his tone was low and distant. Perching his hands on his hips, his eyes downcast, his breath dry, he allow'd the tip of his jutty tongue to moisten 'twixt his lips in a momentary attempt to stall and find his words: "That, if my speech offends my fair lady's heart, I should have told thee, Kate. By my troth, I would have told thee e'erything and anything; but, alas, I knew not how to tell thee this: I am bid perforce to march west afield, towards the setting sun, against our enemies till I might quickly return a victory."

"Pourquoi? De war is won, de treaty signed, de council appeased, your honour satisfied, and our marriage sworn. France and England are one. Vat more is there to do, Henri?"

The sum of his answer was but a simple one: "My duty."

"Your duty?" scoff'd the Lady of Valois, her voice mounting. She knew not whether to laugh or to cry, to commend him or to curse him, to kiss him or to strike him, at such a ridiculous turn of phrase. "You speak to me about duty? Henri, s'il vous plait, you sould not say such tings you cannot mean."

"May't please you to give me say freely to render you my meaning: Ask yourself, Kate, why our betrothal, what should be a magnificent commemoration of the unity of long-rival lands as one, hath been reduced to a simple rite of flight-feather'd elopers?"

Without missing a beat, she repli'd thus with a blank frown: "Évidemment, someting has happened, someting significatif, someting terrible, to force our marriage and your leave."

"Indeed, Kate," he began to pace, restlessly tapping his fingers' ends upon his thigh, "the matter is weightier than that of two star-cross'd lovers as we. 'Twill be fire and steel if it cannot be set right."

"How can dat be?"

"We have receiv'd word that the Armagnacs have given rise to dispute with the Burgundians and allied themselves with the cause the Dauphin, your brother and, by our marriage sworn under God—," crossing himself piously after speaking the name of the Almighty, "—mine own brother, too. He who hath beshrew'd the union between our two peoples and hath murder'd most foully our dear cousin, the Duke of Burgundy, coercing him under parley, with a flag of white hue aloft; yet our treacherous brother still could not prise his bloodlust and, fraught with bitterness of soul and jealousy of nature, hath denounc'd thy parentage, the King and Queen of France, and besmirch'd thy good name, Kate, and now gathereth his armies in Montereau against me, against us all. I must depart to protect France, my new home, or see it divide by civil war, for which I cannot and will not allow."

For a long moment, the Princess of France was silent and drew her hands together in a steeple, of zealous contemplation, as holy and devout religious women would be at their beads.

"Has my brother given admittance to these misdeeds?"

"Nay, he claimeth a false innocence."

"Oui, vraiment," she shook her head gravely; "he vould."

"Thou wouldst naturally defend thy kinsman—?"

"Non, it vas he. I understand my brother vell and know his raisons." Leaning her head against the bedpost wistfully, she held her cross'd arms before her, pulling her shoulders in tightly, and her doleful eyes plead to him. "Am I unable to 'suade you to stay, Henri?"

"No, be that if I could, I cannot rightly do so."

"Den take me vith you."

"No, my fairest one," his tone pav'd with grit and gravity; "Hear me, for I, in good conscience, cannot do such a thing."

His hands reach'd forth, careful in their action, for he had no desire to fright her, and cradl'd her visage to heed his words, to regard his thoughts, and to plead his eyes of green before her blue.

"Judge me not as obdurate: Whiles the King of France's illness worsens and the Dauphin's treason persists, you must reign in my stead. I am but the sword of England and France; yet you, Kate, are my greatest instrument, for you are the quill. I would be brand'd a fool, a madcap of a fool, the king of fools, if I bring thee to the sanguinary battlefield and lose the minister of peace due to the idiocy as minister of war, and then what hope is there for our countrymen? Thou art too precious a capital, Kate, to have thee march as a wifely solider. If I fail in my charge, you will precede me in my hollow crown as my queen and regent in this mortal coil. I know no other more deserving to sit in this coupl'd throne than thee."

The English king caught a whisp'ring of a smile, as it tugg'd the gentle corners of her sugar lips. Delight'd as he would be to acknow that 'twas he whom gave cause to this smile, there was, alas, no happiness within it. It was genteel and grieving.

"De Dauphin vill not harm me, Henri. I am his sister and he my brother."

"And my love, and thus his enemy."

"I can speak to him. He vill listen to me."

"No, I cannot risk that. I would have nothing, if I lost thee, Kate. So dear, so precious, is my love that, with you, all deaths I could endure; but without you, live no life at all. Thus you must remain here, protect'd, safe within these four walls."

"No, Henri," her voice fell to a grave whisper, "I am not safe here, nor are you."

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